


The End Where We Begin

by chromestorm



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to ???, Enemies to Allies, Enemies to Friends, F/F, Gen, Healing, Jaina's pretty mad in the beginning but it tapers off, Post-Theramore's Fall, Self-Discovery, T for violent thoughts?, enemies to friends to ???, i'll add tags as I remember and as they come up, kinda.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 02:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20789402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromestorm/pseuds/chromestorm
Summary: Theramore falls and so does Jaina--but discovery and healing can come from places we least expect, and sometimes all you need is time and a little change of perspective.OR: Jaina finds herself in Lordaeron after Theramore, and discovers the struggles of the Horde and the Forsaken under Garrosh Hellscream's leadership.(Post-Theramore's Fall)





	The End Where We Begin

She has never felt rage like this before.

She has been angry before, yes, but this is different. Up until now she had always been able to control herself, able to keep her stronger emotions and reactions held back just enough—just long enough for them to eventually taper away into something more manageable. Something more _familiar_ to her peers. That was what had earned her the reputation of a peacekeeper to begin with. 

Jaina Proudmoore, the neutral party in an on-and-off-again war between the Horde and the Alliance. Peacekeeper. Because those were in _such_ short supply these days, it seemed. And with what she felt now…

With what she felt now, well. It looked like that short list was going to become one person shorter. She palms the cover of the book in front of her with a gloved hand, her eyebrows creased and face dark.

No. No, this was no longer _anger_—that line had been mocked and straddled by the Horde one too many times and now, with their latest war crime, they had crossed it far beyond what she thought possible. 

She would be made a fool no longer.

_This_ was rage. Hatred. And this time it stayed, settling deep in her thoughts like a lingering crimson haze until it spread and clouded everything she did and saw. It refused to leave; the hate demanding that blood be paid for blood lost, no longer content to simply be ignored by her. 

Her rage had been starved for years, forbidden from being anything more than something to be buried under layers upon layers of propriety. But now Jaina would let it grow. Anger would be a weapon, _her_ weapon—one no longer dulled or held back but instead sharpened by the repeated experience of loss and betrayal. 

This time, she would let it feed itself. Her wrath was a hungry, living thing awoken by the destruction of Theramore, and Jaina would finally, _finally _feed it with retribution wrought by her own hands.

The Horde would pay. Garrosh, Thrall, all of them would pay. Their blood would stain the oceans until she was satisfied, their remaining dregs lost to the tides of the sea. Their bodies would be carried away, crushed by the weight of churning waters until they were nothing but waste at the bottom of the ocean. Then the capital city itself and its great iron walls would collapse under her power, dead, forgotten, and inaccessible.

And she could do it. She could do all of it.

Standing up, she takes the book, burying it deep inside her cloak. Her grip on the precious tome tightening as she leaves the now suffocating premises of the Dalaran library.

They would _all_ pay for Theramore.

[…]

In the end, something makes her pause. Her hands are already stretched out, conduits for the power of the Focusing Iris coursing through her fingertips, the elements ready and waiting to be unleashed upon Durotar’s shores. She can feel it in her bones, her body humming like a livewire for pure power.

It would be so easy—_so easy_ to release it. To end all of this. The Horde capital would be devastated and all it would take is a flick of a wrist. A simple command and the elements would obey her, Thrall’s shamanistic powers be damned. What were his powers compared to hers? To the power of the mana bomb’s sheer destruction?

What did his _spirits_ ever do for Theramore? 

_Nothing_, she thinks, and the answer feeds the flame of her fury like kindling. 

Her hand flexes.

And yet…and yet—

The command gets stuck in her throat, the spell remaining incomplete. Confused, she frowns. She doesn’t know what brought this on. Only seconds ago she had been ready and now…

(This is wrong. This is _wrong._)

Her hesitation is long enough for familiar words to play in her mind. Unbidden, they say:

_Stay your hand, friend, or proceed—if you know the way._

A warning. A word of caution from an old, old friend from whom she’d once sought guidance. One dearly missed, but…

_Stay your hand, friend… _Antonidas’ sagely voice starts to repeat again.

She grits her teeth. Damn this! No! Not now. Not now, when she would never get another chance to end it like this. 

In a desperate attempt to hang on to the rage now quickly slipping through her fingers, she tries to remember how she got here. Tries to remind herself of _why _exactly she was here, just outside the shores of Durotar, cocooned in an overabundance of upsurged water, ice, and arcane energy to level Orgrimmar entirely. She recalls to mind the deception, the losses. Pained and Kinndy. Her faith and trust in her colleagues being abused, misdirected, and hurled back at her face, over and over and over again.

But it is somehow not enough. Instead, it is her grief that grows as her fury comes to a frustratingly slow halt, subsiding as an angry blaze to a flickering flame. Antonidas’ voice continues on:

_—or proceed…_

No. No! Her jaw grinds, resentment bubbling as she tries valiantly to tune out the voice. She knows what will (will not) happen if she lets it through. Jaina shakes her head clear, to no avail.

_—if you know the way._

It is the final part of her mentor’s words that stays her hand. It douses her wrath, extinguishing it as quickly as it came. A distant part of her can hear muffled yelling even through the roar of waves crashing harmlessly to ground, and it is only when she feels an itch at the back of her throat, grating like coarse grains of sand, that she realizes the drowned-out sound came from her own mouth.

She can’t do it. She had thought that she could, but she can’t. 

What a waste, Jaina thinks, to have come this far. To have suffered and felt so much yet still not have been able to take something, anything back for herself in return. The Horde does nothing but take and take from her, but she cannot bring herself to even the scales? Why?

_Why?_ Didn’t she deserve retribution? Any kind of comfort at all for the gaping maw in her chest where Theramore, Rhonin, Pained, and Kinndy used to be, temporary or not?

(She knows why.)

No longer fueled by fury, Jaina’s previously outstretched arms fall limply by her sides. She exhales, breath bubbling in the water, and with the action went the only remaining energy she had left inside as well. It was over. Bereaved, she had nothing more to offer to her anger. Orgrimmar was untouched and the Horde yet lived on.

She closes her eyes. What a waste.

Raw and spent, Jaina’s entire body collapses into itself and falls.

[…]

Darkness. And…voices. 

Though through the haze between conscious and unconsciousness, Jaina cannot quite make out what the voices are saying. Words come and go, sifting brokenly through her senses, and even identifying the people speaking was a dauntless struggle that she did not have the presence of mind for. The conversations all blended together in a jumbled mess, the few words she could put together making little to no sense. 

“…too much power…”

“…not waking…”

“…cold to the touch…”

And then, another voice. Male. And much clearer and more discernible than the other voices circling around her. 

_Khadgar_…

“She will wake,” he says, as if there were no other possible alternatives. As if she weren’t laying somewhere dying, lost and confused (always, always), wrestling with the void to retain consciousness. She feels a gentle hand on her brow. “She is strong. And there is still much for her to do.”

She feels so much more tired all of a sudden, so much more ready to go back to the nothingness of sleep.

Much for her to do? She had failed at peace. She had failed at neutrality, and had even failed at putting an end to the war, despite the opportunity presented to her. What more could she possibly have left to do? To fail at?

She doesn’t get the chance to dwell on the question for long before unconsciousness takes her again.

[…]

When she finally comes to, it is to Kalec and Vereesa’s figures both turning sharply in her direction. She must have made a sound alerting them of her wakened state.

“I…” she starts to say, voice scratchy from disuse. “How long—”

Kalec answers for her. “The better part of four days. You had us worried, Jaina.”

Her mouth feels dry. Four days? She attempts to sit up but her muscles fail her. She sags back onto the bed, nearly groaning in relief when her head hits the pillows. Vereesa and Kalec are quick to rush over to her side.

She lifts a hand to her temple. 

“My head…”

Vereesa moves above her, gesturing for her to relax as she places a warm cloth over Jaina’s forehead. Smoothing a hand over the fabric, the elf offers her a weak smile. “You used up a lot of magic, even for someone with your powers,” she explains. “Khadgar says that borrowing energy from the Focusing Iris took an equal amount from you as well.”

Drained as she is, her immediate reaction is to want to snap at her friend. She is well aware of how magic worked, of how it both gave to and took from its user in proportional measure. But out of everyone present in the room, it is Vereesa who deserves the blunt of Jaina’s ire the least. She didn’t deserve it at all.

Jaina settles for a sigh instead. “Yes. I’ve…never used so much before.” 

From opposite Vereesa, Kalec says, “Unfortunately, the level of potency involved with using the Focusing Iris will worsen your symptoms all the more. It will take a while longer.”

A pause. One slightly longer than necessary and she knows Kalec plenty enough to recognize when there was something more he had to say. She forces her eyes open to brave the light and regard him.

“What is it, Kalec?” She prompts.

“Forgive me,” he ventures, shuffling his feet nervously. It was hard to remember he was nearly as ancient as Alexstrasza when he was standing there like that. It would be endearing if she weren’t so depleted. “I believe Khadgar was looking to speak with you once you woke. I sent him away out of respect for your rest, but…”

“He will be making his way here soon, I imagine.”

“Indeed. He will want to discuss what happened. As well as our next steps.”

“I’m sure,” Jaina says. She risks the next question. “And the Horde?” If she had been out for four days and they had yet to retaliate then surely that was a good sign.

“Busy engaging Alliance forces. It is possible that they may not have been…entirely aware of your involvement. Nor of the true level of danger Orgrimmar was in. At least, not yet.” He pauses again. “Thrall’s doing, perhaps.”

Jaina’s mood sours at the mention of the former orc leader and it does not go unnoticed. Vereesa turns to him sharply. “Kalec—” 

His eyes focus on Jaina’s intently as he continues, undeterred by the sudden and obvious shift in the room. “Or perhaps not. You are in Dalaran now after all, and under the guardianship of the Kirin Tor.” Kalec says the last part with some weight and she suspects that he’s trying to say something more than what he was actually saying.

She scoffs. As if Dalaran were a deterrent for the Horde. Theramore had been a neutral city once upon a time too, and clearly that had meant nothing. Maybe the Kirin Tor held sway, but she had no intention of remaining in their city for long, regardless. 

It shouldn’t be making her so bitter but it is. The home she had intended to build for herself and so many others was gone. And yet Dalaran was here, prospering easily in its peace and its mastery of the arcane. Ah, but she was a fool to think she could ever have accomplished the same with Theramore. Such a far-lofted, ridiculous dream. One that she would now have to give up on.

“I will not be staying.”

Kalec ponders that for a moment. “I see,” he says. 

“Is that disappointment I’m getting from you, Kalec?”

He shakes his head. “I cannot say that I am...keen on your decision, but it is your decision to make nonetheless. There is one thing, however.”

“Oh?”

“Khadgar. There has been a development—and some talk about the future of the Kirin Tor.”

Jaina frowns. What did that have to do with her? Perplexed, she asks, “Do you need me for something?” 

She notes him shuffling his feet again, but this time the movement only draws out her annoyance. “Well, I believe his intention was for you to—” He falters, then clears his throat. “That is, for you…to…to stay. In the city. For the reason that—"

Mercifully, Vereesa chooses that moment to save him from his fumbling. “I found something,” she says simply. “A box with some ancient scrolls important enough to draw Khadgar’s eye. He seems to be under the impression that the contents in them refer to you.”

That only raised further questions. “Me?”

Vereesa nods. “Yes. Although I cannot say any more as I have neither read nor seen the scrolls myself. All I know is that whatever it is that he read, it has given him something to ponder since.”

That was strange. She can’t imagine what ancient scriptures about the Kirin Tor would have to do with her. Although, frankly, it wasn’t something she was interested in being pulled into, either. 

“He, ah… He will…likely ask you to reconsider leaving, Jaina,” Kalec cautions, having apparently recovered from his short spell of self-doubt. “I would like to ask you to take some time to think it through as well.” Bowing his head, he continues: “But as I mentioned before, it will always be your decision.”

Thoroughly suspicious now, Jaina asks, “Do _you_ know what they say, Kalec?”

“I do,” he affirms. “However, it is not because of Khadgar and his scrolls that I would ask you to stay. _That_, I leave to him to explain. No, I would ask you to stay as your friend. I am loathe to leave you alone like this without support, and our movements as the Council of Six are, sadly, firmly bound to Dalaran at the moment.”

Her shoulders slump in relief. She hadn’t realized she had been tense for his response. Kalec had always been a good man—too good for them all, even. It would hurt if he lied or kept something from her now. “I…thank you. But I can’t stay here. It’s too…” Too much.

He offers her a small smile. “I understand. Then I will keep Khadgar occupied for as long as I am able.” He turns to Vereesa, concern still clear in his expression. “Vereesa, you will stay and make sure she is all right?”

“Always,” the elf replies unhesitatingly—as if the question were never really a question at all—and Jaina’s chest lurches at the immediate response. At least she hadn’t lost both Vereesa and Kalec. She doesn’t know what she would have done if she had.

Nodding again, he says, “I will take my leave now then and give you two some privacy. Please. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

The older mage leans over and leaves only the lightest brush of his lips on the crown of her head. Jaina’s heart feels heavier all of a sudden and she closes her eyes for a few brief seconds, allowing herself to be soothed by the touch.

He exits the lavish bedroom, leaving only herself and Vereesa behind in silence as the door clicks shut. The two women regard each other tiredly. Kalec, wise and good as he is, would never understand this next conversation. There was much to say, and yet...

It is Vereesa who speaks first. “How are you, Jaina? Truly?”

Jaina lets out a long breath. She was tired. Angry. Relieved. She doesn’t know where to start and so she remains silent as Vereesa moves a chair over to the bedside, sitting patiently. Jaina’s head moves along with her gaze when she notices the other woman’s right hand creeping up next to her own, lingering.

She could afford to take some comfort from her friend, couldn’t she? Couldn’t they both? Jaina wasn’t the only one who had lost so much to the Horde, and Vereesa had a long, long life on hers.

“…confused,” Jaina admits eventually, staring at their nearly touching hands. There were so many conflicting feelings. “It’s…” She doesn’t know how to begin to describe the anger still simmering underneath. Doesn’t know how to reconcile being _glad_ she didn’t go through with something so terrible with the fact that she had never wanted anything more than to _do_ it. 

“…it’s like there’s something inside,” she tries to begin explaining. “Something twisted and angry. A monster I wanted to let out. And I _wanted_ to, Vereesa. I _wanted_ to, and I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted anything as badly.”

Their eyes meet and the heavy darkness that she sees in the other woman’s eyes all but tells her that Vereesa understands, that she had felt the same thing, _is_ feeling the same thing. How dangerous for them to be alone and together like this. How comforting.

Continuing, Jaina asks, “What does that make me?”

“It doesn’t have to make you anything,” The elf says, and Jaina doubts that Vereesa is convincing even herself.

“I could have done it, you know.” It was somehow important that someone know it. That they know it for a fact, and not merely a possibility. “It was there. I was ready. But I—I don’t know,” she stumbles with her words and it angers her even more. “I both could and couldn’t; wanted to and didn’t want to. It doesn’t make any sense!” Her hands clutch at the bed covers, knuckles straining white. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Vereesa agrees, eyes steely. “But I understand more than you know, and it seems that the road ahead will continue to be a struggle for us both.”

Jaina reflects on those words for a moment. She can only guess at what sorts of thoughts the other woman has had crossing her mind since Rhonin’s death. Nothing good, if they were anything like her own. 

“It was a near thing for you, wasn’t it? To take that last step necessary. There are days when I feel as if there is nothing to hold me back, and I fear that a day will come to pass when that will truly be the case.” Something cracks in the other woman as she speaks. 

“But _you_ almost did it, Jaina. You almost…” she falters, her sentence trailing off. Then, slowly, both of the elf’s hands come up to clasp one of hers tight, and Jaina tilts her head to regard the other woman curiously. Her own grip on the sheets loosen. Was Vereesa disappointed? Glad? She wants so badly to be sure.

Careful of her next words, Jaina replies, “I know.”

Vereesa moves off of her chair to kneel by the bed. Then, very slowly, she lowers her head to rest on top of their joined hands, her white hair brushing delicately against the back of Jaina’s palm. “Gods above, I—I wish…” The grip on her hand tightens, almost painful now. 

From her position on the bed Jaina cannot see the expression on her face, but she can feel on her own fingers the growing dampness beginning to leak from the other woman’s eyes. Hunched over and clinging to her like this, Vereesa reminds her of a priestess—one begging futilely at an altar for prayers unanswered.

The sight of it makes Jaina’s eyes sting. 

“Please don’t—” 

“I wish you had,” Vereesa admits weakly, shame cracking through her quieted voice.

_Gods…_

Jaina’s throat clogs. She can’t bring herself to look at her friend any longer. 

But she wishes, too. Oh, how she wishes she had just gone through with it and ended it then and there. 

“Me, too.”

[…]

When the time comes to meet with Khadgar she can hardly believe what he tells her.

“Khadgar, please. Surely there are others better suited given the circumstances?” This was ridiculous. She was _not_ in the right mind to lead yet another group of people. “Modera. Kalec. _You_, for heaven’s sake!”

He seems startled at her outburst, blinking bewilderedly. “I—well, yes. But please, don’t misunderstand!” He motions with his hands as if trying to physically erase his words from the air. “I only wanted to present the option.”

Well then in that case. “Then my answer is no,” she asserts, direct and to the point. “Surely it would be a bad idea to put me in charge? Did you not witness what I nearly did? If you want the Kirin Tor to remain impartial in this war then this is not the way to go about it! And to choose me just purely based on—on some _scrolls_!”

Khadgar frowns, looks at her strangely as if confused he has to explain himself at all and it makes her angrier. He had been in this battle between the Horde and Alliance for far longer than her. Wasn’t he tired of this? 

“Jaina, the idea isn’t to lead us into neutrality. We are _already_ neutral. The idea is to have someone like you, someone able to forgive—"

_Forgive?_ she thinks, outraged and hurt. Is that what he thought? 

She stops him before he can finish his sentence.

“I have not _forgiven_ anybody,” she seethes. “And neither will I be some—some peacekeeping figurehead for forgiveness in this war. I’ve tried that. A prophecy with some vague likeness to myself isn’t going to change my mind.”

It wasn’t just some vague likeness and they both knew it, but neither said anything to correct her. 

Guiltily, Khadgar concedes the point. “I apologize. You’re right. That was all very badly put. Prophecy or not, however, the invitation to lead the Kirin Tor stands.” 

She is about to argue again when he keeps going, voice softer to try and placate her growing irritation. “This isn’t about forgiveness. And certainly the prophecy had a hand in pointing us to you, but nothing written in any parchment could express what you truly stand for. It is _you_, Jaina, that we need. Your strength of conviction, resilience in the face of grief and adversity…”

Anger rises in her again. It seemed she had less of a hold on it, these days. “And how is that any better? I lose nearly everything I have and it gets used as a recruitment opportunity? And by you, no less.”

There’s a part of her that understands why Khadgar was trying to push this, being familiar with the cold nature of politics herself. But understanding doesn’t help with stopping it from _hurting_ when it’s one of your fellow peers deciding to use the rules of the game against you.

Friend or not, she was not immune to the consequences of being a valuable political figure. Not even when she was still grieving.

“That isn’t my intention! You know it isn’t. It is obvious that neither of us enjoy this position we’re finding ourselves in, but if you would just think it over, if you would—”

But she didn’t want to hear any more. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions, maybe her judgment was clouded and she was too hurt, too sensitive to think logically about any advantages that might come with Khadgar’s proposal but there was absolutely _no_ way she was going to do this. 

“No,” Jaina repeats tiredly, too worn out to attempt to explain herself. “I’m sorry, but no; and to put this bluntly: I have no desire to spend the rest of my short time here in Dalaran arguing about this.”

He gives her a long stare, hard and disappointed and all too easy for Jaina to not give a damn about. “You plan on leaving Dalaran?”

“Yes.”

He tries again, though the frown on his face tells her that he doesn’t expect an answer he will like. Good. “And I take it that you will not be swayed otherwise?”

“I will not.” 

“Where will you go?”

Jaina pauses. She hadn’t thought that far ahead about it, being too preoccupied with her immediate concern of simply _not_ being in Dalaran. “I don’t know,” she answers honestly. 

She would have to go see Theramore for herself sometime soon, but she doesn’t say that aloud. Stormwind might be an option, though the thought of having to explain herself to Varian was even worse than _actually_ having to explain herself to Khadgar. 

What she really needed was time. Just some simple time away to think and clear her head, to see things from a better perspective. Being by the ocean had always helped her in that regard. 

She thinks of Kul Tiras. She thinks of Stormsong Valley’s rich lands, rife with game and farm—of Drustvar’s imposing stone golems and strange superstitions, both deeply rooted in its ancient history. 

And then she thinks of Boralus, of the muted green colours adorning the castle walls of Proudmoore Keep extending well beyond into the city proper itself. She remembers the swarming marketplace sprawling just outside the keep gates always so busy with hagglers and merchants—all rounded out by the ever present distinctive smell of sea, sweat and salt even from a distance. 

Jaina finds herself missing _home_ beyond words. 

_Maybe I could_…

Her thought gets left unfinished when she notices Khadgar dragging a palm over his growing beard, sighing as if she had just left him with an unpleasant decision to make. 

Jaina offers him a suggestion. “Either you or Kalec would make a fine leader. You hardly need me to lead.”

“Hm...maybe,” he mumbles into a hand. “However, it isn’t wise for you to leave Dalaran alone, if only for your own safety. The Horde will get wind of it soon, and should they find out…”

“Jaina will be fine, Khadgar.” Vereesa interrupts. Jaina can’t help but give a low sigh of relief as the elf enters the Violet Citadel. “I think that you pressing the matter is only making things worse.”

Finally relenting, he says, “Right, right. Well, if there is truly no convincing you then I suppose that’s the end of that. Just...please know that it is but a standing offer. From someone who thinks highly of your skills as a mage and as a leader.“ He looks unsure before speaking again, quieter this time. “…and, more importantly, from your friend. If you would still call me that.”

She keeps her expression neutral. “It will take me some time, but I will keep that in mind.”

“That is…” He starts to say something before thinking better of it. Shaking his head and grumbling a low _nevermind_, he says instead, “Stay safe. The Kirin Tor will be here whenever you need us.” 

Then with a muttered spell and a lazy flick of his hand, he teleports away.

As soon as he disappears, Vereesa speaks up. “Light only knows where that one has headed off to this time.” Then she gestures at Jaina. “Leaving so soon? And without telling me?”

“You know I would never,” Jaina chides, offended. “But yes. It’s hard to be in Dalaran. I feel unbalanced here, somehow.”

Though if she were honest with herself it was more than that. There was a reason it was Antonidas’ warning that stopped her from doing what she had thought needed to be done in Orgrimmar. And it was that very same reason why she needed to leave, too.

Vereesa remains silent, only watching intently as Jaina begins speaking again.

“I was warned before I took the Iris. And then the same vision came to me yet again in Durotar.” 

_Proceed—if you know the way, _Antonidas had said. Except she hadn’t known the way. Even now she doesn’t know. But how could she be of any use to anyone if she herself were lost and confused? If she doubted, second-guessed her every move?

How could she make up for all of her failures with Arthas, with her father, with Theramore, if she didn’t even know who she was anymore? It was impossible. 

“I’ve been lost, Vereesa. All of this time spent pushing for peace with the Horde, yearning for it, even in the face of all the evidence that there can never truly be peace...”

“Jaina…”

“And yet there’s a part of me that can’t help but—but hold out hope. A part that’s still clinging to it, even after everything that's happened. Is that wrong? What place does this world have for someone who believes in peace, yet knows it can never be attained?”

“Peace is always a noble goal for the world, and never is a long time, even for an elf.”

“And is it still noble if that peace can only be accomplished through killing?” She challenges. “Garrosh must die for there to be any chance of reconciliation. Even I know that. And through that way lies nothing but more bloodshed.”

It takes the elf a moment to answer. “I can see that you have doubts. You feel lost because you don’t know what to do or where you belong.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Perhaps that matters less than you think. What matters is that you still care. Do you still care?”

“Of course I still care!” She replies defensively at Vereesa’s pointed stare. “But neither am I that girl who always thought harmony was the only answer any longer.”

“Nobody expects you to be. I know that you’re a good person. You _are_,” Vereesa insists, annoyed, after hearing Jaina scoff. “Despite what you believe the Horde has made you into. It may take some time to find that goodness within yourself again, but it is there nonetheless.”

Jaina doesn’t answer, just drops her gaze to the ground. She appreciates that Vereesa keeps trying to lift her spirits like this—especially since the other woman surely had her own issues to deal with—but she doubts that the answers will come to her so easily.

She can see the elf approaching from her peripherals, and when she feels Vereesa’s comforting hand on her shoulder, Jaina raises her head to meet her stare.

“Go, if you feel it will help you find clarity,” Vereesa says. “I said that peace is a noble goal for the world, but it is a noble goal for one’s self as well. Whatever you need to do for yourself, you have my full support. Just try to keep in touch? You know how it can get here when Khadgar gets…Khadgar.”

She nods. “I will. I don’t know when I can return, but…”

“Don’t worry about that. Take care of yourself first, and you’ll find that your friends will be here whenever you need us.”

Sometimes, Jaina wonders what she did to befriend someone like Vereesa. 

She says her farewells quickly (though she lingers somewhat with Kalec and Vereesa) and with a last parting look at Dalaran, she pulls out her hearthstone—still attuned to a place now lost—and lets its magic pull her to where she hopes she can begin to find answers.

[…]

“The reports from Durotar are in, my Queen.” Nathanos announces as he enters the War Quarters, his voice echoing throughout the massive chamber—only one of many that made up the Undercity of Lordaeron.

Sylvanas looks up from her war table to regard the man now kneeling before her. “Later than expected,” she says, tone leaving no doubt she was waiting for a _good_ reason for the tardiness.

“Yes, Dark Lady. Garrosh has been particularly demanding as of late.” Face souring, he lowers his head further. “His Kor’kron guards hound anyone who dares even look in the direction of the Forsaken, so to get any kind of report from anyone has been…troublesome. The confusion in Orgrimmar hasn’t helped matters.”

Ah, but of course. Garrosh.

She turns her attention back to the war table in front of her, where a map was splayed out along with the occasional stray paper.

It was detailed—figures and tokens representing both Horde and Alliance troops alike littering the large parchment, coloured lines marking recent movement between the factions. Sylvanas took particular note of where they crossed and who were involved.

No doubt the map was trying to tell her a story. A stalemate between the Horde and Alliance was unlikely to last long given…present circumstances. And once she figured out what, exactly, that story was, she had every intention of making sure she knew who all the players were.

And where their allegiances lay.

“Garrosh has been a pest at every turn and will continue to be," she says as she tidies the table and gathers some loose sheaves of paper onto a stacked pile. “Ensure that the intelligence we get is accurate, but do not delay about it.”

“It will be done.”

“What do the reports say?”

“Our _dear_ Warchief grows restless. There was an incident in Durotar involving sightings—massive waves of water and elementals on course straight for Orgrimmar, tides powerful enough to drown the entire city. Our mages have confirmed it was not natural.”

Sylvanas nearly laughs in ridicule. Of course it was arcane work. Was there anything _natural_ about a tidal wave bearing down on Orgrimmar?

_But which mage_, she thinks, going through her mental list of mages powerful enough to conjure the kind of havoc that could raze the capital of the Horde. It wasn’t a long one. And the list of them whom Garrosh had royally pissed off enough to provoke such an attack was, surprisingly, even shorter. She glances at her map again, visualizes the Alliance’s moves and countermoves to Garrosh’s chaotic strikes against them.

She has her suspicions.

“What else?”

“There are rumours that Thrall was the one to put a stop to the problem. Garrosh wants to keep our previous Warchief’s involvement quiet, but as you know Garrosh is not so good at keeping his own words and actions in check.”

So Thrall was involved. Interesting. How nice that he would choose to step in now of all times, when he was so content before to leave them all in the hands of a plainly incapable boy-Orc with unresolved father issues. And now they _all_ had to deal with his short-sightedness.

With a nod, Sylvanas allows Nathanos to continue. “And there was another mage from the Kirin Tor. The one from the Blue Dragonflight. Though it is…unclear whether he had something to do with the attack, or whether he was there to help thwart it.”

“Find out his role. I don’t want to work with speculation.”

“Of course, my Queen.” He stands, straightening before approaching with the reports in hand. She takes them and dismisses him, and when he leaves the room she turns, reassesses the contents of her war map.

Thrall… He had been close with Proudmoore. At least up until recently, as far as Sylvanas was aware. The girl would not have been the only one to cut ties with him for his poor choice of successor.

And as far as the other mage went. An aspect of the Blue Dragonflight would certainly be strong enough to be the one behind the attack but for the fact that the motive wasn’t quite there. Still, Sylvanas wonders at his involvement. He had been close to Proudmoore too, with the two of them often seen together in Dalaran with her _dear_ younger sibling.

Sylvanas frowns, refusing to continue her thoughts in that particular direction.

She shakes her head in disgust and refocuses. She had already made the connections that she needed to make.

The important thing was this: There was only _one_ mage linking all of three of the Warchief, Thrall, and the Blue Aspect together. One mage that could compel Thrall to return. One mage that could convince the Blue Aspect to take sides in an altercation he had no business being in.

And one mage that Garrosh had provoked enough to warrant such a violent response.

She had _warned_ him about moving against Theramore. She had even specifically advised against it only to be ignored and now it looked like the Proudmoore girl had finally been pushed over the edge. The _Alliance_ side of the edge.

Sylvanas looks at the now blotted out part of her map where the port city used to be and where a golden token had used to sit steadfastly.

And yet here was the problem—the one whom connected all of them was missing.

Nobody knew where Jaina Proudmoore was. Not the Horde, not the Alliance, and not the Kirin Tor. And when Sylvanas tried to retrace her movements after Theramore’s fall, she came to a dead-end in Dalaran, where the people with whom the girl would normally collude with were similarly confused as to her possible whereabouts.

Problematic, to say the least, to have someone with as much power as Proudmoore left unmonitored, wandering wherever she wished with her anger unchecked. Because even if Thrall and the dragon mage had managed to curb her wrath, that deep-seeded fury, Sylvanas knows, would never leave her. Garrosh would be right there in the young sorceress’ line of sight—wherever she was—and guess whom he wouldn’t hesitate to shove in front of himself to take the first blows, whenever the time came?

_Her_.

Well that just wouldn’t do.

Sylvanas picks up a gilded coin she had previously set aside–a token with an image of a silver Stormwing mid-flight on both faces—and holds it in front of her thoughtfully.

She would turn up; people like Proudmoore rarely stayed quiet for long. And wherever she reappeared she was sure to cause rush of change, for better or worse.

She has some thinking to do if she wants to remain standing for whatever was coming.

Lips pursed, Sylvanas begins flipping the coin over and over in her hand, weaving it around and in-between her fingers. The lanterns in the room reflect light on metal piece, flashes of red-tinged silver, gray, silver, glinting off of its surface with every turn.

“Where could you be hiding, little bird?” She wonders aloud as she toys lazily with the coin in the emptiness of the chamber.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's do something different and wipe everything canon right from Theramore, hm? I've taken some canon content from the books as well, but have fudged canon where I liked. Because I can.


End file.
